When You Go to Meet God
by merryfortune
Summary: Never bought a suit before my life, but when you go to meet God, you know you wanna look nice


**When You Go to Meet God**

Just the other day, that suit was freshly sewn by a well-known tailor who had pins in his mouth, squatty glasses, and a bald spot he could do nothing about because his wiry, grey hair couldn't reach that far in a comb-over. Reese didn't think much of him but Finch assured him: this man was the best in New York – after the others they had previously visited.

It had been Reese's idea to have a new suit bought. It was a highly unusual request from Reese as he found it tedious to be measure and fitted correctly in the finest of Egyptian cottons; nothing but the best from Finch for his "business partner".

Yesterday's Number had been a clear cut case. They had been given the number of a would-be rapist and murderer; they took care of the malevolent misogynist quite easily. It was a simple case where kneecaps were shot and an anonymous tip about strange, seemingly malignant behaviour from a neighbour. Fusco was very happy to take the Number from where Reese had left him.

Since the case had been so short, Finch took Reese to a tailor, and even made an appearance. He sat in the corner and observed whilst Reese willingly surrendered his arm span to an unfurling tape measure It felt... oddly voyeuristic given the uncomfortably close bond between Reese and Finch.

It was there, Finch could understand why Reese insisted that he a new suit fitted. If his current one he was wearing an average for all of his. The material was fading and now a needlessly pale charcoal. There was also fraying, mostly around the cuffs, and tiny threads were wriggling eagerly towards freedom. His current suit could cause an occupational hazard if Reese was entangled in the wrong mess. Yes, Finch could easily understand why Reese would want a new suit after all that in-person observation; careful studying.

It could take Reese weeks to get comfortable in a new suit and the following day, when there were lulls in the action regarding their new Number, Reese would banter with Finch about his concerns he had with his new suit. He didn't like the fabric softener's scent or the way the lapels just didn't flick up satisfyingly enough. It was all petty complaints to rile up Finch. It was all so playful. Yet somehow they all mattered intensely inside of Finch when he saw Reese stagger towards him. Finch's heart hammered. He couldn't do anything but watch as Reese stumbled towards him. His rugged, right hand covered up a deep wound that gaped like a monstrous maw. His white line shirt was slowly being dyed a rusty scarlet. His left leg was completely and utterly mangled. He hobbled pathetically before finally giving in. He had come a fair distance in before crumpling in a grim and blood scrunch on the cold floor. His fresh, crisp suit was in tattered shambles.

Despite the dark urgency of the situation, Reese's suit was all Finch could focus on. Finch reused to believe one, small Number could night decimate the seemingly indestructible Man in the Suit.

Finch approached Reese like he would a mad dog even though Reese's demeanour suggested he was "tame". Finch stiffly got on his knees next to Reese. 'How did this happen?' Finch asked. 'I thought everything was going smoothly.'

'That doesn't matter right now, Harold. I'm dying.' Reese retorted sarcastically.

Finch turned his jacket into a makeshift bandage and Reese let Finch unbutton his shirt. Finch was tender but his hands shook. His knuckles were pale and even a little hairy. Finch tentatively attempted to stop the bleeding. Every movement was frantic and with a hint of hesitation, as though Finch felt stuck in a delusion; a feeling of surreal uncertainty because Reese was always so good at stubbornly surviving.

'Harold, I'm glad we mer.' Reese stated simply as he laid back; relaxing on his cement deathbed.

'I'm pleased.' Finch replied dryly. He was wary of where his conversation was headed. There was strange serenity in Reese's voice. He spoke solemnly without that easy to miss cheekiness that littered his banter in every other life threatening danger he had addressed previously.

'You know many stories, Harold. Send me off with one; a fairy tale.' Rese said and Finch held Reese's hand. It was icy, lipid, and clammy. It was basically corpse-like. Panic spiked inside of Finch as he made peace with his irrationality. He accepted that this time, there may be no "mostly dead" clause.

Finch's thin mouth twisted in distaste. 'It would be unfitting, John, for me to bid you g-goodbye with a fairy tale.' Finch feigned mirth. He was visibly choked up and blinked back tears. His glasses were askew.

'How come, Harold?' Reese asked. He spoke Finch's name truly like a caress.

'Because fairy tales are not for sinners.' Finch explained.

'But we've become a tale ourselves; the Man in the Suit and the Man Who Helps. We've done more good than evil, Harold. I doubt Hell is waiting for me.' Reese replied.

His tough facade cracked as Finch watched Reese agonise with his injuries. Reese grunted and groaned but he tried to swallow them, minimise them, make them disappear. Reese was beyond help with his injuries. 'C'mon Finch, humour me.'

'My father collected stories about birds because even these stories from everywhere – Japan, Italy, so on – were myth, they were still previous to him... myself as well.' Finch rambled.

'I'm dying, Harold.' Reese reminded Finch. It was sarcastic and downplayed. It seriously rattled Finch but his bitter retort in return went without saying so instead, Finch spun a child's story about his adopted namesake: finches.

For once, in an extreme moment of vulnerability, both men leaned on another for support. Finch lost his eloquence and became the scared boy from his youth. Reese was taken back to peachy days.

For memorable effect, Finch took Reese's hand and pecked his knuckles. Finch was mimicking the brave hero from his father's stories. Reese chuckles and made light of the situation in a voice so airy and hoarse he didn't even hear himself; not even in his thoughts.

'Thank you for everything... Harold...' John mumbled as just before he trailed off permanently, he whispered something into Finch's ear: something that broke the final barrier between them. It brought Finch to uncharacteristic sobbing even as he finished his story with the timeless – ironic – 'And they all lived happily ever after.' Finch wept.

Reese did not hear Finch's outlandish tale's final line but he cherished it in his final moments. Similarly, Finch would forever cherish what Reese had told him.

In a fox-like, husky voice, in his final moments, Reese had finally deduced a major component in Finch's enigmatic past: his real name. Not that it mattered because Finch had already chosen his next namesake for his and The Machine's third crusade.

Finch's next identity that he would nest in will be that of Harold Reese; mysterious third party interested in solving life and death situations that the major parties are unaware of being embroiled in because these risky situations are only about to emerge in full detail within the foreseeable future.


End file.
